“Did they say why?” Kevin’s voice was bland. His expression wasn’t. Not only could I see the muscle in his jaw jumping, but the hands gripping his knees had grown white-knuckled. If he hadn’t been healing too fast, there’d be bruises forming under them.
“Something about my killing Luther.”
He blinked slowly. Twice.
“You killed … Luther?” The lilt in his voice made it a question.
I shrugged, still not sure what it meant. “I killed a couple of bats in the alley. One with a gun, at least one other with my knives. One of them might have been Luther. I wouldn’t know. It’s not like they introduced themselves. Why is it important?”
Kevin gave a snort of combined aggravation and amusement, then shook his head and muttered something under his breath that I didn’t quite catch. A day or so ago I might have been insulted by the reaction. I mean, I am a professional. But that was before I met Edgar and company. If they were impressed, well— Now I not only wasn’t insulted, I was almost as surprised as Kevin. Of course I didn’t say that. Instead, I tried to look aloof as I stared out at the incoming waves.
“Luther was very old and very smart. He was also ruthless as hell. I wouldn’t have wanted to hunt him alone. I’m really surprised you were able to take him down.” Kevin was staring at me as if he was really seeing me as a person for the first time instead of as one of his father’s students or his sister’s sometime friend. It was a little unnerving.
“What was Edgar’s message?” Kevin asked.
I repeated what the vampire had told me, verbatim. Kevin sat as if frozen. He didn’t answer. Didn’t act as if he’d even heard. But I knew he had.
It was a long time before I broke the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”
He gave a curt nod.
“Who are these people?”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you. I wish I could, though, because you’re in so far over your head that you may never see daylight again.”
“What should I do?”
He rose to his feet in a single fluid movement. “Eat, then get some rest. But don’t sleep too sound. I’m going to check a few things out. Try to put the pin back in this grenade.”
“And if you can’t?”
“That would be very, very bad.”
I nodded glumly. I was afraid of that. He stood up and I stood with him. We stared at the ocean for a long time before he said, “I’m sorry about Vicki, Celia.”
Without warning, he pulled me into his arms and held me. Just held me. I pressed my cheek to his warm skin and let out a ragged breath. I would not cry again. I wouldn’t. But it was tempting. He stroked my hair and just let me breathe and get control of myself. It had been a long time since I’d let a man just hold me. Since Bruno, really. There were a thousand things I’d always wanted to say to Kevin, and you’d think this would be the perfect time. But it wasn’t. This was quiet time, the calm before the storm that would undoubtedly come. And while I realized his body was starting to react, rather strongly, to my presence, he didn’t let the tension build. There was comfort in the knowledge that we could touch, skin on skin, without feeling the need to go further.
I was a little afraid of further with Kevin. Too, I wouldn’t want to ruin what he had with Amy. That wouldn’t be fair to any of us. And then there was the question of whether he wanted me. Maybe, sometimes. Maybe not. To him I might just be another “little sister” or forever a “good friend.”
But I wouldn’t worry about that tonight . For now I would take his comfort. There was little to be had elsewhere.
13
I’d had a long cry and a hug from a friend. I’d taken my drive. I’d walked on the beach. Nothing had helped get rid of the sorrow, the anger, and the sense of impending doom. That left a bath. Not just any bath, either … a long, hot bubble bath. I mixed a tall, stiff margarita to sip while I soaked. It’s part of the ritual, lying in the water, sipping that lime-flavored nectar of the gods, carefully licking every single grain of kosher salt off the rim of my glass. I don’t climb out until either the bubbles are gone or the drink is. A second drink gets me through a home pedicure and one of those mud pack facials everybody likes to make fun of.
Tonight I put a gun on the toilet seat and skipped the facial. My skin looked human, but I wasn’t sure how it would react to magically imbued salt mud.
I stood in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and trying really, really, hard not to think too much about anything—which is harder than it sounds, particularly when I could watch the nicks from the razor heal fast as a thought and see last night’s injuries fade in fast-forward.
After the third margarita I figured I was as relaxed as I was going to get. I slipped into the most comfy “jammies” I own: a worn T-shirt I’d stolen from Bruno back in college and a pair of flannel boxers. I tucked the gun into the drawer of my nightstand and went to bed. Almost as soon as my head hit the pillows, I was asleep.
It was a dream. I knew it. But I couldn’t make myself wake. I knew what was coming. It was always the same. The dream ended the same way the day had ended in real life. I didn’t want to go there. I just didn’t have a choice.
It was so clear, as if the sunshine from that long-ago morning were streaming through the windows warming my skin right now.
We were in the old minivan. My parents were in front. Ivy and I were in the backseat. My birthday presents were piled in the “way back,” as my father called it. It was my eleventh birthday. I felt like such a big girl. And I was really excited because I was sure, almost positive, that I’d gotten exactly what I wanted.
We were driving past Woodgrove Cemetery. Normally we went the other way, but there was construction and the roads were closed and we were running late. So we drove past Woodgrove, for the first time since Ivy’s talent had started manifesting.
The memory rolled inexorably forward, like a movie playing in my mind. I could hear my parents talking about whether or not we could afford for me to continue taking ballet. The teacher said I had real talent—like I could make a career out of it—so they really wanted me to keep going. But it was expensive, and Dad’s company might be having layoffs soon.
Our happy little family drove past the cemetery, with its neatly manicured lawn, pretty brick and wrought-iron fencing, and row upon row of tombstones.
And the ground shuddered, rolling visibly beside us so that the pavement cracked. A maintenance truck rocked on its wheels on the gravel road behind the fence, and I saw the groundskeeper throw down his tools and sprint for the vehicle at a dead run as tombstones tipped over and skeletal hands began clawing their way free of the ground, decaying bodies following suit.
My mother started shrieking at the top of her lungs; my father swore and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, swerving between slower vehicles as if it were a Formula One race and we were headed for the checkered flag. Ghosts started whipping through the car and Ivy clapped her hands and squealed with delight.
But all of that was just so much background noise. Because I couldn’t take my eyes off of the filthy, decomposing bodies that were shambling to the walls, climbing the fence, and flinging themselves at an invisible barrier over and over and over … trying to get at us.
We made it to Gran’s without wrecking the car. Things got better the farther we got from the cemetery. By the time we stopped the car, even most of the ghosts were gone, with my baby sister waving bye-bye to them through the back window.
I got out first. Then Ivy. It was a long time before Mom climbed out, and I could see a huge wet spot on the back of her dress where she’d been sitting. She moved like she was a hundred years old, climbing out of that car. She closed the door gently, and stepped back with a sad expression.
My father drove away with a squeal of tires that left black marks on the concrete driveway. I watched him go, waving from the front step as though he were just going to park the car. But he never looked back. He kept driving down the road. And finally, my mother burst into tears.
I sat bolt upright in bed, shivering from a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. My skin was covered in gooseflesh and felt as though it would crawl off of my body. My heart was pounding in my chest; my breath came in rapid gasps.
It was just a dream. Just a memory. It can’t hurt you. Of course that was a lie. It had hurt me—hell, it still hurts me every time I let myself think about it, which is every time I have the dream.
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 3:15. I’d slept through the alarm and was overdue for a feeding. Never mind that I wasn’t hungry—in fact, I was again a little bit nauseous. I wondered if maybe that was a warning sign. I didn’t want a repeat of the incident with Dr. Scott, so I’d eat … or rather drink… . Oh, shit. I’d left the pho cooking. I’d gotten distracted, talking to Kevin, and forgot about it completely—despite the fact that the smell of it was filling the house. Well, it was certainly hot enough to eat now. Besides, I wasn’t going back to sleep.
When I’m stressed I have nightmares. Three particular nightmares. They’re based on memories, and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to keep them from playing out completely. The adult me is a helpless observer to the worst things that happened to me as a child.
It sucks.
If I went back to sleep now I’d drop right back in where I left off. So no. Throwing back the covers, I sat up on the edge of the bed. By the light of the moon I padded into the kitchen. I was reaching for the light switch when I saw a shadow moving outside. I froze. Listening hard, I could hear the rustle of leaves and what might have been a careful footfall on the wooden steps of the back deck.
Stealthily as I could manage, I slid over to where my bag was still sitting on the breakfast bar. Reaching in, I drew Bob’s gun and checked it. Loaded. Good. Clicking off the safety, I rose and edged gently across the carpeted floor to the edge of the French doors leading out onto the back deck. By the silvered light of the nearly full moon, I could see a shadow squatted down near the base of the house, near the kitchen door.